A Very Mature Decision

So this weekend's wine getaway has been canceled in exchange for a much needed new refrigerator – my first new fridge in since, well, ever. This is also The Lovely Girlfriend's first ever brand new refrigerator. I believe this somehow makes us an official grown-up couple. Some would say it's a wedding. We've both been married before and yet neither of us ever managed to buy a brand new fridge so I'll argue this is a far more important step.

Our old fridge had previously been my outdoor beer fridge in North Hollywood. I paid fifty bucks for it at the end of a film shoot. It was at least a decade old when I got it. It kept anything in it icy cold and never got that awful ice build up that old freezers tend to get. It's demise came in the form of a broken hinge. I'm sure with searching parts are available for it somewhere. However, since the name brand, make and model had all worn off the various parts of the fridge it would have taken a little more effort than I was willing to put in on a three year old fifty dollar purchase.

So I went on craigslist. The land of call girls, roommate scams and job postings that have been flagged by assholes that already applied and didn't want anyone else to get the chance. Found a relatively new fridge for free. The girl warned me that the door didn't always close shut without some help but otherwise it was tip top. I took it home and plugged it in. In the week since no dairy product has made it longer than twenty four hours inside the fridge. Either it broke in transit, the chick was lactose intolerant so there never was any dairy in the fridge to being with or she liked her milk chunky. So after a week of the free fridge we determined a change had to be made. We've got two weeks until the new one gets delivered. That's two weeks without half and half for our coffee. Our Starbucks runs have increased dramatically.

On top of all of this, our decision not to take a weekend getaway was a fiscally responsible one! Yeah, we are officially an adult couple now. It's just a matter of time before I dress in St. John's Bay clothing from JC Penny's and the LG starts scrap booking. Ah, just think of how mechanical and infrequent the sex will become!

Drink Up!

Somewhere around the age of thirty-two I started getting hangovers. Terrible, crippling hangovers. It didn't matter if I had one drink or one hundred. If I drank it became a total crap shoot. I could be fine or I could be so sick I could barely make it out of bed. My tolerance completely disappeared, my nearly two decades of seasoning myself with strong drink evaporated seemingly over night. To my credit this did not stop me from drinking.

Also, around that time, I started to have trouble sleeping flat on my back. Having slept that way most of my life suddenly I started to feel as if I was not getting enough oxygen while on my back. I chalked it up to a recent weight gain as I was on the down side of my yo-yo dieting (or maybe it's upside, either way I was fat at the time). On their own these two physical changes don't mean much. Everybody reaches a point where they can't whip it on like they did in their prime. Not everybody blows up to the point their own body weight is suffocating them but, hey - fuck you, skinny.

What makes this an important discovery is I now believe they are/were connected to me having cancer. Thanks to the prednisone I was on while undergoing chemo I'm a fatty boomba-latty now and while it took some getting used to after six years away from it, I can once again sleep soundly on my back. Like a beached fuckin whale. Also, after undergoing six months of treatments that broke down my immune system and generally made me feel like complete shit, I'm back to enjoying a drink without worrying how I'll feel in the morning. I can once again drink irresponsibly without repercussions! Physical that is. Legal repercussions can still rear their ugly head on occasion. You'd be surprised how little interest police have in celebrating with cancer survivors. Even after informing them the reason for being pantless on a roof is your first “all clear” three month check-up. If it had been my own roof maybe it wouldn't have been as big of a problem. We'll never know. Until next time that is.

This leads me to one conclusion. I think I've figured out around when it was I first got cancer. One of the early symptoms of Hodgkin's Lymphoma is a strong/bad reaction to alcohol. I assumed this referred to how I reacted to the actual drinking of alcohol not the after effects but now I'm thinking otherwise. On top of that, wouldn't it stand to reason I was having trouble breathing while laying on my back due to the massive cancer filled lymph gland in the middle of my chest that pushed against my lungs when I laid flat? It makes sense to me. When I told my Oncologist about my recent findings he looked at me sceptically and then had the gall to question my medical training! So I put it to you, blog readers. Has anyone else had similar issues before their diagnosis only to see them disappear once treatment was over? Or am I the only one foolish enough to attempt a return to imbibing like a college student. Perhaps with a larger sampling my Oncologist will give me the credit I'm due for this remarkable discovery.

The Wino and I Know

It occurred to me that I have yet to provide reviews for the last two wine country trips that the Lovely Girlfriend and I have gone on over the last few months. With another trip just eight days away I've decided to condense the two trips into one post as they are both kind of a blur anyway. I know there is a significant portion of my readers that couldn't care less about our hoity-toity wine tastings and subsequent reviews. I understand if you stop reading now. I also understand that you're a mouth breathing Philistine with about as much culture as a backyard wrestling video. But by all means, don't feel obligated to actually learn something that could add a bit of class to your otherwise strip-mall existence. Go back to your big gulp and Cheetos and let us adults talk. We'll nudge you when we get to a topic you can contribute to, like taco farts or late night skin-o-max programming. Okay, now that their gone, let's get down to brass tacks. The LG and I have been sucking down some pretty amazing grape juice lately. Our last two trips yielded at least three of the most spectacular wines (and vineyards) that we've ever tried. At the risk of exposing these wineries to a larger audience (an audience of dozens at last count) that whittles down their supply while driving up their prices, I cannot keep my big mouth (gaping yaw, really) shut about them no matter the personal cost. These private little gold strikes have to be shared with fellow wine lovers around the world. Again, the couple dozen of you that read this on a semi-regular basis – some as far away as Norway!!

Let's start with Sarzotti Vineyards in Templeton. Make this an early stop on your next tour of Paso and don't plan on leaving until closing time. This place is run by two of the nicest, most interesting people you will ever have the good fortune to meet. The Sarzotti's treat everyone that steps into their tasting room like family. And good, close family too. Not like your sweaty, drunk uncle that nobody wants to sit next to because he smells like gym socks even though you know he hasn't seen the inside of a gym in at least a decade and hasn't worn socks with his boat shoes for nearly as long. No, these folks either don't have those kind of family members or are too sweet to notice when one like them shows up. The LG and I got there around 1pm and spent a solid two hours plus tasting. The Barrel Reserve Cab's (both an 06 and an 07) were the absolute stand outs but in all seriousness there was not a bad sip in the bunch. They've got a 07 Syrah that will blow your mind, hell, even their table wine (aptly named Vin Tavola) is out of this world. We took the guided tour, got a blow by blow from the winemaker as to how and why he makes the wines he does, even got a couple of tastes from two vats of Cab that won't be out until the end of this year – just spectacular. Go. Go. Go. Then send me a picture to let me know you did and how right I was.

Bedford Winery in Los Alamos is an absolute, hands down, don't care how long it takes to get there even if it's out of the way, stop on any wine tour. Possibly the best part of the Bedford tasting experience was when the owner, Stephan, greeted us with a “What do you want? Don't you know it's too early for this shit?” look then a grunt in response to our asking if he was in fact open or if he'd just forgotten to close and lock the door. Normally, that would have put us off for the rest of the tasting but as it turns out Stephan Bedford is a treasure trove of wine-making and local knowledge. Once we got past his gruff exterior we found ourselves in a veritable viticulture 101 class in the middle of his tasting room. I can't blame him really, it was 10am on a Sunday afternoon. A time for repentance not revelry. Plus my recollection is the LG said something to the effect of “I'm not driving, what do I care, let's get hammered.” It also didn't hurt that everything he poured us was delicious. I can highly recommend the 07 Archive Syrah as well as the 08 Arroyo Grande Pinot but really it's all so good it will make it nearly impossible to choose. Also, and it kills me to say this because I just know someone out there will wind up buying the last case before we can – the 2000 and 2001 Cabernet Franc's are some of the most stupendous wines my giant tongue has ever been lucky enough to have splash across it. Yet another reason to stop here, they sell library wines at half off the case! Incredible. And if any of you snag the last case I swear I'll hunt you down, crash on your couch and drink it all with you one weekend.

Finally, Star Lane Dierberg Vineyards. Wow. Just... WOW. Simply stupendous wines from top to bottom. Wine so good that the everyday supermarket wine they make under the label Three Saints we recently passed off as high end gourmet vino at a party. It's tough to say which of their wines we were most impressed with, probably the Star Lane Merlot but their Dierberg Pinot and the Estate Blend were in a close tie for second. My only criticism of this winery (and it's hardly a criticism) is that they strike me as so high end that I almost feel uncomfortable drinking them. Just as I wouldn't feel natural behind the wheel of a Benz (unless it was about thirty years old and a diesel), I feel like the Star Lane Dierberg wines that we brought home are almost too precious to handle. They weren't terribly expensive – mostly because I didn't buy them, the LG did – the tasting room wasn't uber-fancy and the staff certainly didn't come off with that obnoxious I-just-got-my-sommelier certification attitude but there is just something about the wine that makes me feel like it needs to be coddled. I'm sure I'll get past it shortly into my second glass but it's worth mentioning simply because I'm not a fancy guy and this wine feels fancy.

Okay. That's it for Part I of our wine trip. Part II to come shortly.

DIY Matchmaking

Having been in a committed, loving relationship for three years and counting it is not often that I find myself thinking “damn, this is a great place to meet girls.” As a matter of fact, it's probably been three years and counting since I've had that thought – I swear, Darlin. A few days ago that exact thought passed through my brain and I feel compelled to share it with all my devoted, single male readers. All eleven of you. Are you ready to have your mind blown? You can thank me for this early Christmas present after you've found your new girlfriend at this completely untapped babe hang-out.

Two words, one of them hyphenated. So, maybe it's three words. I don't know. I'm no English major but if you've been a regular reader you already know that. Okay, okay, two and a half words - Jo-Ann's Fabrics. FUCKIN BOOM! Did I just blow your mind? Cause it blew my mind when it happened to me. Jo-Ann's Freakin Fabrics. It is a hot bed of hot ladies. And every one of them is tickled pink to see a masculine fella shopping for bolts. You'd get less attention if you walked into an empty peeler club during the day shift with a wad of hundos. I was immediately under a barrage of women that wanted to know if I needed any help – almost none of them were actual employees of Jo-Ann's. What was I looking for? What did I need? Yeah, sure, it was my fabric needs and my color choice wants that they were so interested in attending to. After I informed them that I was trying to figure out how to darken the curtains in my bedroom so my Lovely Girlfriend and I could sleep in on the weekends they relented on the full court press for male attention but not before one of them threw herself to my feet and exclaimed “She can't give you the carnal pleasures that I can.” Alright, that last moment may not have actually happened. They all then commented on how sweet I was, what a wonderful boyfriend I must be and that I was probably a kind and generous lover. Okay, again, the last of those statements didn't occur. But in all seriousness, my mere presence in this fabric store was like cat-nip to these girls. They wanted to know every aspect of my proposed project plans for the bedroom curtains as well as everything about the LG and I's relationship. Either I came across a clandestine meeting of a lonely hearts club or fabric stores are some kind of magical doorway to available attractive women in the Los Angeles area.

Here's where an asterisk comes. Is Jo-Ann's Fabrics a great place to meet girls anywhere in the country or is this one of those Los Angeles phenomenons, like how a Ten from the Heartlands becomes a Six at the Nightclub because everyone here is ridiculously good looking? Are there attractive single women making their own clothes all across this country or is it just a LA thing? I don't know. I could not tell you if and when I was in a fabric store prior to last Thursday. My money would be on this being an Southern California Exception. I would expect most arts and craft stores to be filled with crazy cat ladies and women with large collection of Cabbage Patch Kids that they treat them like real children. So, if you are a male reader anywhere else in the country this post probably doesn't help you. If you are single, male and in LA (I think I've narrowed this post audience down to about three now) you need to stop by Jo-Ann's on Lincoln Blvd in Santa Monica. You don't even need to be in the market for any of that squirrelly arts and crafts nonsense just make sure you've got a good story about what you want, what you need and what you're looking for. I'm sure an available lady will be more than happy to help you with the rest.

Climb Every Mountain

If you've ever tried running up hill with a plastic bag over your head then you would understand what it's like to drive with a badly clogged catalytic converter. At least that's what I thought was wrong with my truck when I tried to summit the Rocky Mountain Pass on my way across country. Also, I didn't have my vision obscured by a plastic bag, that would be dangerous. I was talking on my cell phone for a lot of the drive but since I'm not an idiot that was perfectly safe. I get the whole no text messaging while driving. It makes sense, you shouldn't try to write a note or read the paper while driving either so be it hard copy or digital it's best to avoid dropping your head into your lap while zooming along at 75. But the whole no talking on the phone thing is just a load of bullshit. If the person on the other end of the line was in the vehicle with me, I could have that conversation without worrying about being pulled over. So what if it happens on my cell? Oh, right, hands free, that's why. Because police are constantly stopping motorists for not utilizing the 10&2 hand positioning on the steering wheel. I rarely drive with two hands on the wheel. How would I hold my beer? Excuse me, I mean my road soda. No, we're all not allowed to talk on the phone while driving due to the terrible drivers who shouldn't have been on the road to begin with that wound up with a phone in their hands while in the accidents they were destined to be in because they drove like shit to begin with. If that made any sense.

It wasn't the cell phone conversation that made me a danger the day I drove across the Rocky's. No, it was the fact that I couldn't get up to a speed greater than 25mph while traffic was cruising by me at around 65. Fully loaded eighteen wheelers were passing me on the upside of steep inclines blaring on their horns as they rumbled by. At one point we had lost so much forward momentum I was afraid we would start rolling backwards. Eleven thousand feet and change is no place for a pick-up with air flow problems. I would not have even attempted the drive had I known just how bad the problem would become at elevation. On our drive across country up to that point their had been a few moments that the engine did not respond to the gas pedal, through the hills of PA and again while driving across the flatland’s of Kansas but on both occasions the recovery that resulted from a new tank of gas and a bottle of fuel injector cleaner convinced SugarDust and I that we had been the victim of bad gas. As it turned out I would be the victim of bad gas a number of times during the trip. Once SugarDust started hitting the sauce he really let them fly. I can't blame him entirely, when you are crippled by a hangover on each days drive and constantly fighting the urge to vomit it's tough to hold it in on both ends. To his credit, as annihilated as he would get the night before he never missed the 5am and 6am call times to mount up and hit the road. SugarDust always took the first shift behind the wheel (he said it helped him sober up) and I got a little shut eye. I'm assuming he was telling the truth as I never once woke up in the middle of a car accident. Kidding, kidding. I never let him anywhere near the drivers seat, morning, noon or night.

Anyway, we made the climb. Slowly. Very fucking slowly. Pull your hair out, convinced you're about to be rear-ended by a Maximum Overdrive long-hauler, slowly. At the Continental Divide I knew we had made it. It was, quite literally, all down hill from here. I tried to get SugarDust to take a leak with me on the Divide so half our urine would wind up in the Pacific and half in the Atlantic. He said he was far to dehydrated to produce any on demand and was concerned that we may never get out of the Rocky's if we stopped now. We crested the Divide, passed through the Eisenhower tunnel (I could have the order wrong, it has been a couple months since the trip) and let gravity take hold. We had beaten the clogged catalytic converter and we were just two days away from Los Angeles. We were also about ten hours from Las Vegas and a visit that SugarDust was certain to never remember but some lucky dancer would never forget.

Also, as a side note, it wasn't the catalytic converter it was the air mass flow sensor or something like that. Basically, the difference between a two hundred dollar fix and a two thousand dollar fix, in my favor. I will, one day, straight pipe my truck and throw a cherry bomb or a purple hooter on the back so when I rumble by fancy foreign cars and rev the engine their anti-theft systems go crazy. Cause I'm a hillbilly and that's how we do it.

Radio Silence

In case you hadn't noticed and by the lack of website attendance it looks like you hadn't (thanks, Bob Ueker) I shut it down about three weeks ago. It was a brief self-induced hiatus. In the weeks leading up to my first of what I'm sure will be many post treatment check-ups I became convinced that I was going to jinx myself by bragging all about kicking cancer's scrawny ass. I'm not a superstitious person. Far from it. One of my favorite all time phrases is "People say you should not tempt fate, I say fate should not tempt me." Hubris. It's one of my strongest qualities. Bravado aside, I became convinced that I would wind up sitting in my Oncologists office, days after the CT Scan and hearing I had to go through all of this fucking nonsense again. The next logical step, of course, was to convince myself that if I just stopped writing about it then that moment wouldn't happen. I recognize exactly how ridiculous this line of thinking is. Writing can't give you cancer, if that was the case then we would all have been spared the Twilight series.

So I shut it down. Not knowing what to say online or even what to say to the Lovely Girlfriend or anyone else when they asked why no posts lately. Why no posts? Because I'm convinced God will smite me. Doesn't sound like a terribly reasonable response. How would they handle hearing that? Sure, in Biblical times you heard about people getting smitten left and right. It was probably a common conversation around the watering hole.

"Did you hear about Jedediah?"
"Heard he got fired by Caesar."
"Word is it was a smiting. God got all up in there."
"Smote?"
"Smote."
"Shit."

No, far better to keep my crazy to myself. At least until the coast is clear. Last week, I got the three month all clear I was hoping for. No one even mentioned that my neck appeared to be covered in ligature marks from the near constant self examinations I was giving my lymph glands. I realized a few days after the round of visits that I hadn't checked my neck a single time since. As I see it, I've got a solid two and a half months of braggadocio before I start freaking out again. I'm alright with that. I couple weeks of feeling humble and recognizing how little control we all have over our lives never hurt anybody.

But for now... Take that Cancer. I kicked your fucking ass!

A Line in the Sand

I recently caused a scene. This isn't any kind of headline news. I'm well known for my scenes. Sadly, not in the world of acting, just in the world of acting-out. They're really more like spectacles. When my Dad used to cause them I called it a Fatty Freak-Out. I'd call mine Husky Havoc but with a few more months of weight loss maybe Slender Psychosis or (with some additional weight training thrown in) A Well Defined Debacle. My ability to create absurd alliteration aside and in defense of my actions, I was being asked to violate one of my long held life rules. Do not stand in line for anything unless you absolutely have no choice. You'd be amazed by how much free time you wind up with if you live by this rule. Also, you will never ever feel ripped off by whatever it is you receive after you've waited so patiently in line for it. I like to call it the Pink's Hot Dog Rule. For those of you that have never lived or vacationed in Los Angeles Pink's is a well known hot dog stand in Hollywood that typically has lines twenty plus people deep in front of it. Having eaten there once I'm assuming these people are all first time diners at Pinks. Otherwise they would know that waiting in this line for the hot dog that comes in the end is a lot like waiting in line to get kicked in the nuts. The best way to avoid the Pink's Hot Dogs in life is to never get suckered into waiting in the line. I have lived by this rule for as long as I can remember. This rule does come with one small caveat - the people you are dinning, drinking, traveling, vacationing, working or living with also have to live by this rule. And that's where we introduce the Husky Havoc.

The Lovely Girlfriend and I were up in the Bay Area visiting my Eventual In-Laws when we all realized I had never been to the world famous Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar in the Fairmont Hotel. The LG and I are big fans of all things Tiki so this seemed like an obvious place to stop before our dinner in the city. What we didn't know is that even though the bar opens at 5pm they don't just "open the bar." No, they make everyone line up outside and seat groups one at a time. When we arrived it was about 5:15 and there were around a dozen people waiting in line. I was immediately wary of stepping into that line. However the Lovely Girlfriend and the Eventual In-Laws assured me that it would only be a few moments before we were seated. Those assurances were uttered just seconds before the couple waiting in front of us heard from their friend who's been sent to scout out the situation the following "it's a forty-five minute wait and it's empty inside." I immediately tried to leave. The LG and the EIL's either didn't hear the comment or wanted to pretend that they didn't hear it. They continued to insist that we would be seated in a matter of minutes. Finally, after many not so hushed deliberations I walked to the front. Sure enough, this famous tiki bar was all but empty. When I asked how long to get seated I was told that if we were at the back of the line it would take about an hour. Well lucky for us we were not at the back of the line! We were two whole groups removed from the back of the line! What a bunch of Rubes bring up the rear. We would be looking at the menu, maybe even ready to place our order by the time they even saw the inside of the place. Lucky us!

I left. The moment the hostess said an hour, I was planning my escape. I walked back to the LG and the EIL's and told them it'd be an hour. I was leaving, they were free to join me. There's got to be another bar around here somewhere. It wasn't until I reached the street did I realize they hadn't followed. I'd just assumed they would. Typically when I walk away from something I'm followed. Often it's by security or management but either way I'm followed. I really needed them to follow me on my walk out as I am not at all familiar with San Francisco and had no real idea where that other bars I'd envisioned would be. As it happened there was another world famous bar right across the street - The Top of The Mark! The penthouse bar at the Mark Hopkins hotel. No line and no waiting, except for the rickety elevator ride to the top. My phone was blowin'up (as the kids call it) with angry text messages from the LG. Angry is a bit too strong, let's call them testy or miffed. Messages to the ilk of "you're a child" and "I can't believe you." I tried to explain to her there are certain rules you set in life and live with forever. Never mix dairy with large amounts of hot peppers. Don't accept a ride from a French Canadian. Don't wait in line for a kick in the nuts.

They waited. And waited and waited. I had two tasty bourbon cocktails, a long look at the San Francisco skyline and a rather dull conversation with some folks from Oregon before they even got seated. All the while I'm sending taunting text messages about how great the view and booze is up here, there's plenty of seats and I'd love for some company. They held strong and waited. I've got to hand it to the EIL's and the LG, the last text told me they were saving me a seat. I paid up (around 14 per drink!) and hustled back over. Sure enough there was the Lovely Girlfriend with a Lava Bowl for two sitting in front of her and an empty straw - if that ain't true love I don't know what is. The line avoided, the scene forgotten. In a large part due to the vast amounts of rum in the punch bowl sized drink in front of her and in a much much smaller part due to the recognition that I am a man with principles no matter how ludicrous. I will not ever wait in line for a kick to the groin. One to the pants with no waiting? Well, that's a different story.

No Longer Moving. Therefore Not a Moving Violation.

My Father recently received a ticket from the LAPD in the mail. Obviously, he's not driving that much these days and the ticket was intended for me. It was one of those BS red light camera tickets which by all accounts in the news is no longer something that Los Angeles is enforcing due to some kind of contractual issue with the technology company that supports the system or something of that nature. Either way, never wanting to miss a chance to give the needle to any form of authority I wrote a response to the ticket. Below is my letter to the City of Los Angeles. I think the old man would be proud.

To whom it may concern,

I am writing on behalf of my late father Julio V DeSanctis III and in regards to the traffic violation that we recently received in the mail for him. Sadly, my father passed away on September 9^th, 2011. I have enclosed a photocopy of his death certificate. As you can see by the date of the alleged violation, this could clearly not be my late father driving the vehicle in question as we've tried very hard to make sure he doesn't use the car since his untimely demise. Additionally, the handsome man so perfectly captured in the photo is obviously not old enough to be born in 1943, the year of my late fathers birth. Tops he's mid-thirties but looks like he could pass for a man much younger. Damn, the camera really loves this guy! As handsome as my late father was, he could not have passed for a man thirty years (plus or minus, I'm just assuming) his junior. Especially seven months after his passing. He really started to let himself go at that point..

Additionally, it appears by the multiple shots of the incident in question, that the violation is not a violation at all. Upon further inspection, this appears to be a smart-looking someone making a right on red. A perfectly legal move in all states but New York last I checked. As far as I can tell there is not a single “No Right on Red” sign posted that would cause such a maneuver to result in said traffic violation. If you look real close in the second photo you can even detect the stunning man behind the wheel putting the breaks on. You can't see the rugged good looks of the man in question of course as the second photo is of the back of the truck but you can see the break lights illuminated and you can imagine just how powerful and successful he would appear while applying them.

In closing, this is, without a doubt, not my late father. Please take care of the ticket on his behalf. If you would like to make a donation in his name to Cancer Care of Maine or the United Methodist Church, New England Conference that would be greatly appreciated as well.

Best,

Name and Address withheld.

Wino Suggestions

Three weeks into my big time advertising job and I'm already wasting company time on personal matters. Hell, who am I kidding, I've been wasting their time on all kinds of stuff since I started but this is the first one that can actually be pinned down as work time spent on personal work. Unless of course I can figure out a way to get rid of the websites time stamp, which I almost certainly cannot since I still have trouble simply logging in on a regular basis.

Anyway, while the clock is ticking, I'll make this short and sweet. The Lovely Girlfriend and I are just four days removed from a wine tasting tour of Paso and a trip to the in-laws. I still haven't had the time to post about our last wine tasting trip in Sideways country so I'll have to group them all together when we get back. Either way, the reason for this post is I'm looking for suggestions. Where to go in Paso Robles? Keeping in mind that so far we've hit Rabbit Ridge, Vines on the Marycrest, Chronic Cellars, Mondo, Silver Horse, EOS, Booker, Caliza, DarkStar, Brian Benson, Midnight, Wild Horse and Costa de Oro and Le Cuvier.

So where else do we go? Anyone? A little help here?

Besides looking for recommendations this is also to test the comments page and if any one is actually reading this blog.

Get Out of Dodge

Or even better, don't bother to go. You'd be saving yourself a lot of trouble if you just stuck to Interstate 35 or 70 or 40 or whatever other route you may be traveling. I'll admit it's kind of interesting to travel across the back roads you need to get on to get there but there has never been a better example of the phrase it's the journey not the destination. Because the destination is fuckin shit. Dodge City, as imagined from days of yore, was bulldozed under about thirty years ago. That does not keep the Dodge City Chamber of Commerce from advertising that a visit to Dodge City is a visit to the Old West. Old being a relative term of course. The current Dodge City is about as old as I am.

What they built isnt even a reasonable facsimile of the Old West. It's a bunch of 70's style brick arcitecture with cheap looking wood planked walkways in front. Oh, and posters. Lots and lots of posters of what Dodge City looked like just thirty plus years before when it was an actual time-capsule of a Legendary Old West Town. They even do the posters in black and white to give you that old timey feel. Unless, for some reason color film was not yet available for purchase in this podunk outpost. Maybe color film needed to be ordered from the one Sears and Roebuck catalogue that the dry goods store had on hand but because that was the first building razed and before anyone from the town hall had decided to capture this historically bad business decision they settled on black & white. Either way it was a real stroke of genius. Those photos clearly convey just how much cooler it would have been to be there then. Instead of now, which sucks. I probably could have found them online and not had to face the crushing realization that SugarDust and I had just driven about 130 miles out of our way so we could feast our eyes on a crappy sandwich shop, a dentists office and a Wallgreens.

As we climbed back into the truck, understanding we had just blown about three hours of our already long day of travel, SugarDust finally got to utter the famous slogan he'd been waiting so long to say - Time to get out of Dodge. Only SugarDust expanded on this famous slogan, what came out of his mouth was - Let's get the fuck out of Dodge and try to forget that we ever wasted a single fucking second here. While profane it was certainly appropriate.

We could not drive fast enough in our departure.

Mad Man

I have recently come into the employ of an advertising agency. I have no experience in this field but being a huge fan of the show Mad Men I figured I'd know exactly how to handle my first day at work. I started by sexual harassing the secretary. That's what she called it anyway. I would call it banter between a red-blooded male and a dollfaced dame. After filling out some kind of "first and final warning" paperwork I went to pour myself a double bourbon. Would you believe they have a no drinking at work policy in this office! How am I supposed to sell cereal to housewives if I can't pickle myself during a brainstorming session? Fine, I figured, I'll smoke instead. Nobody ever got tipsy on the soothing tar of Chesterfields. Last I checked, nicotine stimulates the T-Zone, just what I need for a creative breakthrough. When I lit up... you would have thought I'd shot bambi. I'm aware of the no smoking ban throughout most of America but I never thought it extended into the world of advertising. How am I to go all Don Draper on a slogan without a cigarette? The next thing you know they'll be asking me to treat women and minorities as equals! I'm fine with that in the outside world but this is Advertising! I did not go out and buy a skinny tie and a bucket of brillcream so I could treat everyone equally! What kind of bullshit is that!?

I tried to explain to everyone that I needed to behave this way in an effort to stimulate my creative juices. They didn't believe me. Instead they insisted that I was only using it as an excuse to behave like a world class mysoginist. They may have been on to something. We eventually worked it all out. After some intense negotiation we settled on me getting paid like it was 1961.

A Banjo Museum. No, really, there is one.

If at any point during my life - prior to January 26th, 2012 - someone had told me I would not only attend but enjoy and even willingly pay the admission fee two of my reluctant pals, to The American Banjo Museum I would have kicked them in the shins. Not because I hate banjos but because anyone that knows me knows that I never ever treat. Amazingly, it was true. I paid because SugarDust and Downtown were not yet convinced - even after seeing the lobby filled with Rotating Golden Banjos and being told that there was over Nineteen Million Dollars worth of banjos in the collection - that this would be the greatest ever visit to a museum focusing solely on banjos. I pried my wallet open and plopped down the eighteen dollars. And then the magic began.

Speaking of magic, there is a sad connection to people that have dedicated their lives to the banjo and those that have dedicated their lives to magic. The main connection is, by the looks of it, they all spent a lot of time as virgins (David Copperfield's rape island aside). The second connections is a deep seated love of sequined vests. The combination of the two creates a kind of chicken or the egg scenario. What came first the late adult virginity or the sequined vest? I'm betting on the vest but you never can tell. Their virginity could be because of their hideous faces and the sequined vests are an attempt at a distraction. No, that couldn't be it. Nothing could distract you from those horse toothed faces not even a disco ball swinging from their necks.

This could be a good explanation for why every banjo was slightly more gaudy than the other until finally culminating in a banjo made of solid gold and strung with unicorn hair. Okay, all kidding aside, these banjos were fuckin spectacular. Hand crafted, covered in semi-precious and probably mostly just glass jewelry, often depicting what would now probably be considered borderline racist images of Native Americans. Many of these white-people-only musical instruments were valued over twenty thousand dollars. How they determine these values and if anyone had ever actually paid or offered to pay that much for one of them was not documented. But, again, without any sarcasm, this was a pretty impressive collection of handmade Americana. So much so that at times the wise ass side of me was absolutely without sarcastic remarks. I was genuinely blown away by the intricate work that must have gone in to creating these chintzy instruments.

I should mention here that I love (LUUUVVVV) old time country western music and bluegrass. Love it. Listen to it all the time. Greatly enjoy the banjo that so often accompanies the steel guitar, mandolin and fiddle. However, banjo solos, dueling banjos, extended banjo riffs, this is the reason so many banjo players have died at their own hands mid-concert. The madness that comes with extended exposure to said music.

Okay, that probably isn't true. If banjo players were off-ing themselves in front of concert goers we'd likely would have heard about it.

Seriously, if you are ever in Oklahoma City and have an hour or so to kill you should check this place out. If for no other reason than to find out that, incredibly, Shakey's Pizza used to be a wildly popular chain that featured live banjo music. They made no mention on if their pizza was any better than the cardboard and ketchup they serve now. Also to see just what nineteen million dollars worth of banjos look like. Or, you could just copy and paste the photo below. It would make you a liar but at least you'd still have your six bucks. Speaking of which, SugarDust and Downtown never paid me back. Cheap Bastards.

Magellan didn't need no Magellan

I have no idea if this is still part of school but when I was a kid, on the yearly standard aptitude test, they always included topography/map reading somewhere in the math section. I was very proud of the fact that I typically aced this section. I learned how to read maps at a very young age. My family took a lot of road trips and my sister and I reading the maps as we went was a long standing tradition. I could read the hell out of a map. Still can. However, thanks to mapquest, google maps, various car built-in GPS systems and map applications available on every smart phone that skill is now completely and utterly useless. It's a shame, really. It had been one of those things that separated the men from the half-men and, of course, any and all men from every single woman. I'm sure if option D on the topography quiz had been "stop and ask someone for directions" everybody could have nailed it. But that was the point. Wanna get somewhere you've never been, learn to read a map. Now any idiot can get to go from point A to point B without even the least amount of skill or innate sense of direction.

In 2002 I drove across country with a handful of maps. I had a cell phone that was not text message compatible, no access to the internet and certainly no GPS system at my disposal. I spent two months bouncing around the country. Never once got lost. Granted, it helped that I had no fixed schedule, no hotel reservations to miss or deadlines to make. If I was "delayed" or "off the beaten path" it was because I chose to do so, certainly not because I had somehow gotten turned around. I was simply exploring. Since I was travelling alone there was no one to tell me any different.

I did not have the same remarkably flexible non-schedule available to me on my most recent cross-country drive. SugarDust and I decided to procure a GPS device in an effort to make the best possible time between stops. When we left New Jersey with my Aunt and Uncle's borrowed Magellan GPS system now at our disposal, those scenic detours of the past were now accompanied by a nagging computerized voice telling me to make a u-turn or go back in the other direction. It took a little figuring but eventually I found the mute function and shut the damn thing up. Which, by the way, was the voice of some broad with a British accent. As my Lovely Girlfriend already knows I don't ever listen when being told how or where to drive. Having the Queen of England correct me wasn't going to change that. It was quickly decided that the Magellan would be strictly a back-up system of navigation. Partially because I am always distrustful of technology and partially because I refuse to rely on said technology to determine my every move. I am convinced that no good can come from mindlessly following the dictates of a four inch computer screen.

My conviction was confirmed when SugarDust and I landed in Oklahoma City. We paid a visit to our buddy Downtown and his wife The Legal Guardian. Downtown is one of the smartest guys I know. On top of that he's as tough as a two dollar steak and a real man's man through and through. This is not someone that should ever require the assistance of directions. At least that was what I thought before we hopped into his Jeep for a trip into Bricktown. Downtown uses a GPS. And, just as I suspected would and could happen when you stop relying on your God-given innate sense of direction and the second grade reading level required to read signage, could not find his way into the downtown area of a city he's lived and worked in for almost two years. That's right, Downtown couldn't find downtown. It was a hard thing to witness. My greatest fears come true. A man crippled by a machine. I knew right then that the Magellan would be spending the remainder of our trip face down on the dash. Only to be broken out under the most gruesome of conditions. In an effort to make myself feel better and to help Downtown re-capture some of his lost manhood I insisted that we spend several hours visiting The Great American Banjo Museum. Seriously. It was awesome. So much so that it deserves its own post.

Snowshoe, PA

If you ever find yourself feeling like your life couldn't possibly get worse, remember, you could live in Snowshoe, Pennsylvania. The place were hope goes to die. The little town that couldn't. Population 765 and quitting.

I had the horrible misfortune of passing through Snowshoe on January 24th, 2012. A day that will live in infamy. Possibly a better description of this occasion would be I was lucky enough to escape Snowshoe. You see, I hadn't been warned. I was unaware that palpable desperation would cling to you the moment you set foot inside town limits. I did not know that melancholy could actually manifest itself as a color. I never expected a stop for gas and coffee while on a road trip across country could make me question my faith in a higher power. If there is a God, how could he (that's right, he!) allow a place like Snowshoe to exist?

I'd like to say Snowshoe, PA would be a great location for an end of the world movie or possibly one of the dozens of living dead films that pop up every year. I cannot make such a recommendation. Having tried to take a picture to capture this atrocity, I can tell you that film exposed while in Snowshoe refuses to develop. Even digital! It's as if the complete and total lack of happiness sucks the light out of the air and you are left with a blackness as dark as Bill Belichick's soul.

So much like the start of most bad horror movies, I warn all of you - Don't go down there. Nothing good can come of it. There are some things you can't un-see. If you do make it out, you'll never again be the same person that went in.

But if you do stop, grab a bite to eat at Exit 22 Cafe and be sure to have the pie.

Jan 23rd - Nana: The Reckoning

I love my Nana. She's not someone that mixes words. You may be imagining a Jessica Tandy or Katharine Hepburn type that knits folksy yarns together with blunt honesty until you are encased in a kind of depression-era wisdom v-neck sweater. No, that's not my Nana. With my Nana you tend to wind up in a straight-jacket. It's a loving, well meaning straight-jacket but it's a straight-jacket none the less. You see, my Nana would kick the hell out of Miss Daisy.

On the second full day of the Cancer Cross Country Road Trip I paid a visit to Nana. We had not had a chance to see each other during the seven months or so that all of this medical nonsense had been going on. During that time she had suffered a stroke gone through rehab and was unable to travel. I had been essentially tethered to the Cancer Care Center since the failed port-a-cath. So we had plenty to catch up on.

Keeping all of this in mind I checked into the front desk of the rest home only to be informed by the receptionist that she had been there earlier to prepare them for my arrival. "A big boy with black hair and a hairy face will be coming." That was her message. A big boy. I hadn't even seen her yet and she'd already gotten me concerned about my weight. I found her room and after exchanging hugs we both got a little misty eyed over my Dad's passing. My Poppop's (her late husbands) passing a half dozen years or so earlier. Her recent move. And my recent victory over Cancer. After sharing a good cry we broke for lunch. I was still on the tail end of my liquid diet days and being the thoughtful Nana that she is she'd check ahead with the cafeteria to make sure they had items on the menu to meet my dietary needs. As it turned out the chicken broth they had promised her actually came with rice and chicken in it. I was fine with that but Nana felt betrayed. I assured her I could get it all down. As a side dish she insisted that I have a bowl of mashed potatoes. Not because I wanted them or that they were in any way recognized as being a particularly delicious side dish but because they are soft and what goes better with soup than mashed potatoes? Don't we all enjoy a light lunch of soup and potatoes with beef gravy now and then? Isn't it a popular special at most luncheonettes?

After I choked it all down we return to Nana's room and an Aunt and Uncle from my Dad's side of the family stopped by to say hello. We spent an hour or two chatting before I had to get back on the road and Nana had to start preparing for the 4pm dinner bell. We all said our good-byes, promising to see each other again as soon as possible. I also paid a short visit to another Aunt's place before retiring for the night and what promised to be an outrageously long drive to Indy in the morning. Little did I know that I was less than 24 hours away from the horror that is Snowshoe, PA.

Like Farming, only Weaker

No matter how manly the man odds are he's got something in him that makes him just a bit of a twinkie. For me it's gardening. I try to look at it like I'm some kind of big city farmer, living off the limited amount of unpaved land available to me. Farmers are a rugged bunch. Not like the floral hatted Nancy's that engage in plant potting activities. In an attempt to fool myself I often don bib overalls and a straw hat just for the three minutes I spend watering my tomatoes. It feels a whole hell of a lot more manly than the apron and pruning shears I normally work with. It doesn't eliminate the Tinkerbelle that runs rampant in my hobby of growing the plumpest, juiciest tomatoes possible but it at least masks the image.

I found out recently that a buddy of mine is a big fan of musicals. He's a kind of a new friend really and if it hadn't been for my inherent understanding of the little bit of lady that lives in all real men I would have gotten up from our romantic dinner together and stormed out to the handsome cab waiting for us curbside. Musical theatre! Really! It's hard enough to make new friends for me because deep down inside I'm an unbending asshole and I expect everyone to see things from my point of view from the start or change theirs if they don't. I'd thought I'd found a fellow dickhead to commiserate with until he goes unburdening himself with confessions of a love for Le Miz? Under other circumstances that would have brought an end to any further hang outs. Not because I'm incapable of being friends with someone that is not as masculine as I am, if that was the standard set I'd never have any friends as I stand at the top of the manly man mountain. No, it would have been the end of future hanging out because I find musical theatre to be one of the most offensive forms of entertainment known to man. But as I garden and recognize that each man must have at least one (but no more than three) really girlie habits I am able to overlook this colossal flaw in my new pals character. What a magnanimous gesture on my part. That I would forgive a human failing on the level of enjoying musical theatre! Damn, I'm a good fuckin person!

It's all because I realize that each on of us has that one thing (but it better damn well not be more than three) that makes us a little more like a gal than a guy. For me it's my garden. For him it's musical theatre. For another friend it's those annoying photos of cats with completely un-amusing captions (you know who you are, don't deny it). We've all got it and I say instead of denying it or hiding it from others be proud of your inner tink. As a matter of fact, I'm going to add updates on my garden as a part of this blog. I refuse to be ashamed. I Garden! So what of it. It doesn't make me any less of a man. If anything the only thing that could possibly make me less of a man would be the girdles and dresses I wear!

Jan 22nd Redux

In an effort to get this blog turned website back on track I'm going to re-start the Cancer Cross Country Road Trip story. I'll skip ahead a bit and just remind you at I woke at 3am for a 4:30am start time, we got lost in Bergenfield, NJ because they don't believe in posting street signs and I made it down to my Aunt & Uncle's place in time to catch both the AFC & NFC Championship games.

Once there, I got to meet the newest addition to the extended Cancer Family. An adorable six-or-so-month old boy. He was happy, funny, energetic and scared to death of me. I wasn't completely surprised. A lot of little kids are terrified by strikingly handsome people. I'm pretty sure there's a number of scientific studies that attest to just that. Or it could have been my outrageously deep and scratchy voice thanks to the radiation. Or my three months past due for a hair cut mane of hair. Or the mangy beard that was falling out in patches around my neck. Also due to the radiation. I guess what I'm getting at is I was liking a little jacked up only 4 days removed from treatments and the little fella recognized that. On the plus side, after about six hours of exposure to me he was finally ready for a picture. Or, perhaps, he was just too tired to fight it when his Mom put him in my arms. Either way, we got some very nice photos of me smiling and him looking apprehensive at best, confused as to why his loving mother would do this to him at worst. I'm almost certain you will eventually be able to find the photos on some web site that specializes in babies crying on the laps of Easter Bunny's, Santa's or elderly relatives.

After the games were over (The Raven's gave that victory away) I watched my first ever episode of American Idol. I've seen clips of course. You can't even watch the National News without some update. Which is incredibly sad by the way. How is the winner of a TV game show news? That's basically all it is. If Betty from Grand Rapids doesn't make the news when she wins big on Wheel of Fortune than neither should whatever one and done pop star remake when they win Idol. It's not news! Walter Cronkite reported on wars, the moon landing, the assassination of JFK and MLK, would you ever expect him to report on Thursday night eliminations? I'm not some kind of news connoisseur but it should be clear to all of us shit like that simply does not deserve reporting. I can see why the show has the following it does. I haven't started watching regularly but I have to admit it was comical. There are buckets and buckets of crazy desperate people out there. Under the right editing they can be awfully funny.

I had big plans for the following day so I headed to bed early. Tomorrow, I was gonna see my Nana. I needed all the strength I could muster.

Frequently Infrequent

Once again I am apologizing for my lack of posting in the last week. In the nineteen days since my triumphant return to the West Coast it seems I am always putting off this blog in exchange for a variety of favorite things to do in LA. I have yet to establish a daily routine since my return but instead I am visiting one part of town or another to remind myself just how much I've missed in the last seven months. New bars and restaurants, old hangouts and sunny sandy beaches. All the things I've pined for during the bleak existence that is Winter in Maine. It has not disappointed. Throw in the fact that I finally get to sleep in my California King Sized bed with my California Petite Sized Girl and Los Angeles quickly becomes everything I'd remembered and much much more. I could use my recovery from cancer as my go to excuse but I won't. Hopefully, based on the picture I've painted, you understand my lack of diligence to the written word. Oh, yeah, and I've gotten myself a job. I know, I know, I'll allow for a few minutes for all of you to regain your composure before I continue.

Okay, moving on, I've got a job. It doesn't pay much but it's a start. I am now the Social Media Administrator for Koreatown Plaza. I have no qualifications for this job other than I'm dating the girl that is in charge of hiring the position. As it turns out I'm not half bad at it. It helps that I love, L-O-V-E, Korean food (all Asian food really. Okay, I love food in general but honestly, Korean food is one of my favorites) and luckily a big part of the job is eating at the food court there. And taking pictures of food. Something else I'm a fan off so I can remember exactly what that delicious meal looked like when I think back on it. What can I tell you, I'm a fatty and this is how fattys think. You'd all be doing me a big favor by going to the www.facebook.com/koreatownplaza and clicking "like." I don't think I'm in any danger of losing my job as long as I keep giving my boss the good stuff a few dozen times a week (she's a vixen this one) but it wouldn't hurt to pad the stats. Also, I think I'm building a pretty strong sexual harassment case. I don't think I should have to give her my weekly updates from her lap.

Finally, if you have not yet noticed, this site is what might be called perpetually under construction. I am nearly incapable of navigating even the simplest of web instructions so figuring out things like how to add photos, videos, links, ads, even simple blog posts tend to take awhile. As such, a large part of this website will remain incomplete for quite some time. I am aware that this flys in the face of conventional web wisdom but like all things in life that I do not bother to comply with I simply do not give a shit. It'll get done when and if it gets done and it'll in all likelihood get done wrong. That's sort of my signature move - wrong and not in a timely manner. Again, cancer is the easiest of excuses to lean on for the various starts and stops but I'm not doing that any longer. I'm recovering from all those treatments and by drudging it up every time I fall behind is not doing me any favors. Nope, I just won't do it.

First on my list of priorities is figuring out how to get some ad space up. If my dream of doing nothing but spouting my opinions for a living is to one day come true I've got to start capitalizing on my hits. Admittedly, I have zero idea as to how many people need to hit this site on a regular basis in order to make this dream a reality but hell, I've put the time in setting the damn thing up. I may as well turn a buck for doing it. So if you've got any inside info on how to work this whole interweb thing and feel like sharing it please send it on to me. I could use the help. Which reminds me, The Help is a damn good movie. Since I'll be adding movie reviews to this site shortly I'll start with that one. Look for it soon. Yes, I know I'm about six months too late on this. Gimme a break, haven't you heard I've had cancer.

We resume this blog

As it turns out the whole "I'm gonna start a website and make money off this blog" thing has not gone as smoothly as planned.  I still have not figured out how to put up ads or how to find people that want to advertise so basically I'm paying to write this shit down instead of the other way around.  Add to this the fact that I recently decided to check my blog viewership numbers (over 30000!) compared it to my website viewership numbers (considerably less than 30K) and as a result I will be to re-posting my website columns from the last few months on this blog to see if... oh, hell I don't know what I'm trying to accomplish other than some more readers.  Okay, enough preamble.  Enjoy.